The Reluctant Traitor
by Murtagh Strikes Back
Summary: When Murtagh was captured and taken to Uru'baen, he was forced into the service of the king. This story follows the events that took place during his captivity, his relationship with Thorn, and development into a powerful rider. Longer summary inside.
1. Imprisoned

**Summary: **When Murtagh was captured and taken to Uru'baen, he was forced into the service of the king he had always vowed to oppose. What happened within those walls that brought about this change? What did Murtagh suffer before and after his decision? This story follows the events that took place during his captivity, his relationship with Thorn, and development into a powerful rider, bound to fight for a cause he hates.

**Disclaimer:** Believe it or not, my name is not actually Christopher Paolini. Therefore, I can claim no ownership of the Inheritance series or any of the characters in it. I'm not making any money from this story, and I can't afford a lawsuit. So please don't sue me!

**Chapter 1**

Dark. Pitch dark, pressing in around him. He could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing. There was no memory, no emotion, no thought. He simply existed, trapped inside this black void.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, his mind began to defrost and he could think a little. Where was he? Who was he? Was there anything outside of this empty darkness, or was emptiness all there was? As he sat there, memories began stirring to life inside his mind. He could vaguely remember a world where the sun shone over the mountains, spreading warm light across the lush fields and dense forests, the little villages and bare plateaus. The place he had once wandered free, unfettered by the consuming blackness that seemed now to be slowly choking the life out of him. He could remember the gentle caress of the breeze, the soft rustling of grass. He could remember the feeling of a horse beneath him, the powerful rhythmic jolting of its rapid stride. He had been a good rider, once. And a formidable swordsman and marksman, too.

He remembered now. Murtagh; that was his name. Murtagh.

As he whispered his name to the darkness, everything came rushing back to him. He remembered his childhood, and his upbringing in Uru'baen. His escape, and his time fighting the Empire alone, living by skill and luck. His long hunt for the Ra'zac, culminating in his meeting with Eragon and Brom. Brom's death, Arya's rescue. Their long and desperate journey across the Hadarac desert. The Varden. The battle with the Urgals, the defeat of the Shade. The surprise attack, Ajihad's death. The Twins. Being overpowered, and dragged forcefully into that dark tunnel. And then…nothing.

His blood began to boil as he realised that the Twins had betrayed them. It was they who had led the band of Urgals who had attacked their company so suddenly, and had Ajihad slain. They had captured him, using force and magic to make him comply. They had bound him and dragged him away, undeterred by his desperate struggle for freedom. After a long race down the tunnel, they had halted by the edge of a black chasm, stripped him of his tunic and left it by the brink, before forcing some vile liquid down his throat. From then on all was blank.

It was then that he became aware of cold stone beneath him, and behind his back. His arms were bound above him with iron shackles, and there was no sensation in his hands. His head throbbed painfully. He tugged against his bonds, but the iron only chafed painfully against his wrists. Ignoring the pain, he continued to struggle until his hands and wrists were red raw. The shackles were too tight. Defeated, he slumped back against the rough wall. His last stores of energy had been spent in his efforts, leaving him exhausted. He could feel the panic beginning to rise in his throat, but he bit down on it firmly and took several deep breaths of dank, musty air to steady himself. He needed to be calm if he was to figure his predicament out.

So, he was in a prison somewhere. That much was evident. An underground dungeon, by the bitter taste of the air. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the blackness, he could make out a faint glimmer coming from under what could only be the door. Torchlight, he deduced from the orange tint of the glow. He took note of the position of the door, in case an opportunity for escape should be presented to him. Feeling far calmer now that he knew his surroundings, he began to go over the possibilities in his mind. There was only one that was plausible. The Shade and the Urgals had definitely been working for the Empire, which meant that the Twins had been as well. And if that were the case, there was only one place they could have taken him after he had been caught.

He was back in Uru'baen.

The reality hit him like a blow to the stomach. He had hoped never to be back in the clutches of Galbatorix. But somehow, all his efforts and skills in concealment had come to nothing. He wondered what Galbatorix wanted with him, since his capture had obviously been carefully planned. Whatever it was, he was sure it would not be anything enjoyable.

With that realisation, Murtagh gave himself up to complete despair for a while. He rarely ever lost hope completely, but now he could see no way out. He was trapped here, the one place in the world he had never wanted to see again, and there was no chance of a second escape. For what felt like hours, he sat slumped against the wall with his head bowed and eyes screwed shut, wondering what on earth was going to become of him.

After a long time in which nothing happened to break the dark monotony, he began to calm himself once more, and become more himself. He would not lose hope just yet. He was Murtagh. He had fought the Empire all his life. He had been in deadly peril more times than he could count, but he had always gotten away in the end, with little more than a scar or two to bear testimony to his experience. He had escaped Galbatorix once, he could do it again. Feeling calmer and a lot more confident, he relaxed a little and began to think about escape.

He expected something to happen soon. Surely Galbatorix wasn't just going to leave him in the dark to rot. There was a reason he was here, and he was confident he would find out about it soon enough. However, the hours dragged on, and nobody came to him. He heard no sounds of movement outside his cell. He began working on elaborate plots in his mind, each wilder and less likely than the previous. Then he shut his eyes and tried to relive memories of happier times in his life. He thought a lot about Eragon, wondering whether he was ok, what he was doing, whether his friend missed him at all. The only sound in his cell was the faint dripping of water in a corner. In the silence each drop seemed to echo horribly, and he involuntarily began to count them, until he was sure the sound would drive him mad. Just as he had convinced himself he would be left to go insane and rot in this dark hole, something jolted him out of his morbid thoughts.

He could hear footsteps approaching his cell.

**A/N: Any comments or constructive criticism would be hugely appreciated!**


	2. Punishment

With a loud grating sound, the door of the cell slowly swung open. Light streamed in, and for a moment Murtagh was completely blinded by its brilliance. As his eyes adjusted to what he came to realise was only the faint glow of a torch, he could make out a tall figure silhouetted against the shadows.

The figure advanced towards him, and he noticed the light glinting off the man's bald pate. As he drew even closer, a wave of comprehension hit Murtagh as he made out the stranger's face. It was one of the Twins, the traitors.

"You." He growled furiously, glaring up at the man who had betrayed the Varden and led him to his current predicament.

The man quirked what would have been an eyebrow, had his face not been completely devoid of hair. "Were you expecting somebody else?" His voice contained a barely concealed note of glee. Murtagh did not answer, struggling against his fury and his immediate urge to lunge at the foul being. He was bound, at the traitor's mercy. His best, and only, defence against the man was silence.

When Murtagh did not respond, the Twin's eyes narrowed. Suddenly, Murtagh felt the unwholesome force of the traitor's mind brush against his consciousness. Gathering every last reserve of strength he possessed, he began to erect barriers around his mind to block the attack. The Twin's face remained impassive, but he increased the force of his attack and battered ruthlessly against the defences of his mind. Murtagh grimaced as the pain of the attack rushed through him, but he refused to back down. Agony ripped through his entire body as the man pushed harder and harder. They had been through this before and Murtagh had won, but this time it was different. There was nobody to interfere, nobody to tell the Twin he was going too far. Murtagh was already greatly weakened by his capture, and he knew he could not hold out for long.

Just as he felt sure he was about to break, the Twin suddenly retreated and Murtagh was left, gasping for breath and trembling from his exertions, leaning exhaustedly against the stone wall. He felt completely drained, and his head was throbbing painfully from the pressure it had been under. He forced himself to look up at the Twin, who was now scowling in displeasure. Wondering why he had stopped his attack so suddenly, Murtagh waited for him to speak.

After a moment of dead silence, the Twin opened his mouth. "The king…wishes to speak with you." His voice was slightly hoarse, but aside from that he showed no signs of their previous struggle having taken any toll. "You are to come with me." He snapped his fingers sharply, and the iron shackles suddenly opened and released Murtagh's wrists. Wincing as the blood rushed painfully back to his numb hands, Murtagh staggered to his feet. For a moment everything seemed to spin around him, and he was forced to fling out an arm to catch himself against the wall before he fell. The Twin grabbed his shoulder, digging his sharp fingers into the joint much harder than was necessary, and began guiding him roughly towards the door. Determined not to show any more weakness, Murtagh ignored the harsh grip and followed.

He found himself being led through a dim stone passageway, up a roughly cut flight of stairs, and through another door. As his eyes once again adjusted to the sudden light that flowed through, he realised they had emerged into the main dungeons of Uru'baen. He had not known of the existence of that secret cell, and wondered briefly why the Twins had put him down there. He did not have long to dwell on it, however, for he was soon being led quickly through the labyrinth of cells towards the main body of the castle. Here and there, he caught glimpses of prisoners behind the bars. An old man, curled up on his lumpy straw bed. A naked young boy, huddled against the wall, bruised all over and bleeding from several nasty lacerations on his chest. A girl, perhaps several years younger than himself, lying motionless on the floor, her garments ripped and torn and her face tear-stained. He averted his eyes, keeping them locked on the floor beneath his feet as he was led up another flight of steps and into a large, brightly lit corridor. He looked up again and gazed around, taking in the all-too-familiar surroundings.

The corridor was deserted, for which he was thankful. The last thing he wanted was a crowd of spectators to his plight. The Twin's pace quickened, and shortly they halted before a great, golden door guarded by two soldiers; the door to Galbatorix' throne. The guards hastily swung the heavy door open, and stepped aside respectfully. Overwhelmed by a sudden wave of fright, Murtagh braced his feet against the rough-hewn flagstones and pushed all of his weight backwards. His rebellion was quickly crushed, though, as he felt a strange force grip his legs and compel him to step forward. He glared venomously at the Twin, but the spell continued to carry him forward and into the room. The heavy doors swung shut behind him.

"Murtagh." The cold voice echoed ominously in the spacious room. There was something chilling about the tone of the speaker; it was infused with terrible power and malice. His gaze was drawn, irresistibly, towards the figure who stood, tall and menacing, at the end of the room.

Long ago, Galbatorix had possessed a regal beauty that far surpassed others of his race. However, years of grief, hatred and madness had corroded his face, until he bore little resemblance to the handsome figure he had once been. His eyes were wild and deep, burning with the fire of his ruined soul. His features showed signs of having once been fine and slanted, but were now twisted and distorted. He was painfully thin, and towered above even the tallest of mortal men.

The king fixed a dark stare on Murtagh. Once again, his legs were jolted inexorably forward, until he stood before Galbatorix. Suddenly his muscles went limp, and he collapsed to his knees on the ground. He forced his head upwards, to stare defiantly up at the terrible figure of Galbatorix.

"Murtagh." Now the tone bore a mocking edge; a hint of cold humour. "You thought you could escape me? Foolish boy. None can long escape my grasp." His eyes had a maniacal glint in them. "You have hindered my purpose since your escape, and you shall amend that in due time. But first, you must be punished for your treachery."

As he spoke, Murtagh felt a sudden force press in upon his chest. The invisible pressure constricted, pushing the air from his lungs. Panic began to rise in his throat. He gasped wildly for air, but to no avail. Agony tore through his body, and he felt as though his ribs had broken under the pressure. His eyes bulged out as he tried desperately to get some air into his lungs. Black spots flashed before his eyes, and the world seemed to be fading around him. But then, just as quickly as it had come, the pressure disappeared. He sucked a great, rattling breath, and the sudden rush of oxygen nearly made him choke. Then everything went black.

When he regained consciousness several seconds later, he found himself lying face down on the stone floor. Galbatorix was standing over him, looking down at his weakened frame in amusement. He hastened to get up, and to his relief his legs were now free of the magic bonds that had incapacitated them. After several moments of wild scrambling and flailing, he managed to stand. A rush of dizziness threatened to force him back to the ground, but he fought it back.

Galbatorix looked at him disdainfully. Without warning, Murtagh felt the king's mind brush up against his. The power emanating from him was immense and terrifying, and had an unwholesome reek. Murtagh had no chance of blocking it. Galbatorix forced his way easily into Murtagh's mind, and began painfully probing the depth of his thoughts. Murtagh gritted his teeth helplessly as a fresh surge of agony ripped through him. Galbatorix ruthlessly ploughed through all his thoughts and memories, jabbing and tearing and bruising as he went. Time seemed to stand still as each nook and cranny of his mind was relentlessly battered by the king's cruel search.

Finally, Galbatorix pulled back. The shock of the withdrawal sent Murtagh once more to his knees, gasping weakly for breath. He knew he should be concerned about everything that Galbatorix had just found out, but he was too drained to care.

The next several hours were a blur of agony and torment, punctuated by brief flashes of clarity. As Galbatorix tortured him, he found himself slipping into a black void where everything ceased to exist, save for the unbearable pain that seemed to assault him from all sides, blocking out every rational thought. Gradually his conscience ebbed away, as the suffering overwhelmed him completely and his mind gave way to unconsciousness.


End file.
